


Eventful

by LittlexWing



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Exhibitionism, F/M, Female Solo, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-14
Updated: 2014-10-14
Packaged: 2018-02-21 05:13:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2456057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittlexWing/pseuds/LittlexWing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter's off somewhere doing whatever the hell Peter does. Braeden has to entertain herself in his absence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eventful

**Author's Note:**

> Cross-posted from tumblr. Smut practice #2; including solo practice. That's it.

Well  _shit_.

This is mighty inconvenient.

It’s not something that normally happens to her.

Well, it  _does_  because she’s a human woman.

But usually there’s some catalyst. She doesn’t just  _get_  horny in the middle of the day for no goddamn reason.

Except she is. So apparently she does.

And wouldn’t you know it? The one time she actually wants Peter around, he’s nowhere to be found. Sure, she could call him or text him, but it wouldn’t do her any good. He’d only deny her to be an asshole. She could ask nicely, come real close to begging without actually begging. He _might_  come back for that. She  _might_  get fucked within an inch of her life. But even that isn’t worth the hell she’d catch for the rest of  _both_  their lives over it.

God, but she did want to have sex though. She never used to want it like this. Damn near _crave_ it. (God Peter would  _love_  to hear that.) Her hormones were manageable. When she wanted to fuck, she did. When she didn’t want to, she didn’t. Her body followed her lead, not the other way around. She had  _control_  before getting involved with a werewolf. This was all his goddamn fault.

Fucking Peter and his fucking  _fucking_.

She can wait it out. She can ignore it and do something else.  _Or_  she can take care of it herself.

It isn’t as if she didn’t know how. Sometimes it’s easier to do that than deal with other people altogether. Sometimes it helps her get to sleep. It has definitely been a while since she’s had to though. Peter’s voracious appetite and ridiculous stamina took care of all that for her. She didn’t often have to instigate anything to end up in his bed. Or be thrown into it. Or a wall. Or his couch. Or the floor. Or the balcony windows. Or whatever surface happens to be near enough to them.

_Ugh._

Yeah, no. Damned if she’s going to wait for the wolf to come back to his apartment and fix this. He’d be just as cocky, just as abrasive if he found her smelling like frustration and arousal. Purposely do things to make it worse, then cruelly deny her and mock her for the rest of the day.

Fuck Peter.

Or—well, whatever. She knew what she meant.

She’ll handle this herself.

Luckily she doesn’t have to waste time trying to think up some elaborate sexual fantasy to play out in her head. She could get pretty particular if she had to build one from the ground up. Make the person, make the person not annoying, make the person do what she wants while still not annoying her. She’ll kill thirty minutes before her hands even get anywhere. It’s much easier now; mostly because it’s not so much fantasizing as remembering. There’s plenty of memories for her to pull from. They’ve never had any bad sex. His ego won’t allow him to either be a bad lay himself or consent to having one with someone that’s substandard. He’s a fucking snobwolf in every sense of the word. Doesn’t stop him from being attractive. Doesn’t stop him from being attracted to her. _Goddammit_. Doesn’t stop her from thinking of the times their bodies come together so hard, so rough, and  _so good_. She isn’t a romantic idiot. She’d never say something so stupid as ‘it was like they were made for each other’. Maybe his werewolf senses make it easier for him to read her body and adjust accordingly. (He certainly doesn’t listen to the words she says, he’s forever telling her to shut up and how much he  _doesn’t_  need her input.) Maybe they’re just naturally in tune with each other. Maybe that came with the explosive sexual chemistry that crackled between them.

_They didn’t even fuck it up the first time. There was none of the awkwardness of a new lover. Trying to figure each other out, learn about each other’s bodies and who liked what kind of touch where. Mostly because they were both being rather selfish, concerned with their own pleasure. Peter’s just happened to come from holding her thighs open and making her squirm on his tongue. She would have never guessed him to be the type of man that loved oral sex, but he fucking did. She never had to push his head down there, beg, plead, bargain or compromise. No, he just fucking did it all on his own. No half-assing it either. No painfully spreading her lips too wide, no using his teeth, no just shoving his fingers in dry places, or doing that incredibly annoying head-shaking thing some guys thought was actually sexy. None of that. She never had to tell him what_ _**not** _ _to do. Once he figured out how to make her back arch the right way, or thighs shake, he kept right on doing it. However he learned, whoever he learned from, God bless’im, because goddamn, he was_ _**good** _ _._ _Every time. She absolutely came apart on his tongue_ _**every time** _ _._

_Of course, that came with a price. For every orgasm he gave her, he turned right around and punished her sensitive flesh with even more stimulation. Whatever way she showed him to give her what she wanted, he’d use against her. He kept licking, sucking, tasting. Rubbed his stubbled face against her sensitive inner thighs. Tortured her clit until she said his name. Too much, too intense. There was no keeping her whimpers inside over that. Instinct drove her to try and get away from his sadistic mouth. She never got very far_ _though_ _, if she managed to break their contact at all. The same hands he’d used to part her thighs would dig in and_ _**yank** _ _her right back down where he wanted. Where she would suffer and suffer and_ _**suffer** _ _until he pushed her into an even more intense orgasm than the first one. The worrying/wonderful part was he was just getting warmed up…_

“ Nhh…” She’s getting wet. Slowly. Heat spreading along her body as she stretches out on the wolf’s bed. She can do better though. Peter can make her fall apart over and over with just his mouth, but it’s not  _all_  he’s capable of doing.

_She’d made the mistake of visiting (read: invading) under one of her alias’—the girly one that wore high heels and got her nails done and what not, ugh—straight to his place. Her skirt was black leather, but even that didn’t make it better. And this red—oh, excuse her,_ _crimson button down blouse was getting on her nerves. Flimsy looking material. Vibrant re—_ _**crimson** _ _and hella difficult to hide weapons in. All she’d_ _wanted was a safe place to stay and not suffer skirts and heels for it. Peter might bitch, but he wouldn’t throw her out. She was prepared to catch all sorts of hell for being dressed the way she was when he caught her in the elevator._

_She was not prepared to be practically pounced on damn near as soon as the doors closed._

_The elevator jerked to a sudden stop, her purse hit the floor and Peter was_ _**all** _ _over her. It was all she could do to simply hang onto him. Slammed up against the wall of the elevator, hands up her skirt, his mouth sucking bruises at her throat and collarbone, blouse tearing, buttons falling everywhere. She didn’t know what got into him and didn’t have the presence of mind to ask once he got his hand inside her panties. There’s only so much you can do as a human swept up in a force of nature. He warned her—after the second orgasm he’d fingered her to, pressing down on her too-sensitive clit to make her fucking_ _**sob** _ _—that if she ever came to his place dressed like this again, she would not leave unfucked. She’d be lucky if she could walk at all._

_He’d stopped the elevator before he ‘attacked’ her. When he got down on his knees and hooked her legs over his shoulders, it started again. Someone had called it. She was pinned up against the wall, skirt around her waist, panties ripped off and laying defeated in the corner, very obviously having her pussy positively **devoured** , and at any moment, those doors could open. Anyone could see them. Twice, the doors opened to no one and the fear/thrill of being caught made her so damned dizzy._

_The third time, ‘anyone’ did see them. Some woman she’d never seen before, which wasn’t saying much. Peter was the only person she saw in this building regularly. The doors opened and there she was, stalling out as she went to step forward into the elevator. She’d looked up. Saw the two of them. She could have closed the door, she could have freaked out, she could have even made some comment about getting the next one._

_She did none of these things._

_This woman stood there, with wide green eyes and_ _**watched** _ _them. As a matter of fact, she slammed her hand against the elevator_ _’_ _s closing doors twice to keep them open. This woman she didn’t know stood there for God knows how long, watching her writhe and squirm on Peter’s cruel tongue. No phone out, no taking pictures, no texting. Just watching, like she was trying to commit the sight of them to memory for some private moment of her own. Peter knew damn well they had an audience. Oh, he practically purred right into her,_ _hitched her up higher_ _and—_ _**God** _ _, she came so hard, she couldn’t stand up under her own power for twenty minutes. The whole floor must have heard her._

Now she’s breathing hard and sufficiently slick. Goddamn, Peter. She’d never know she had some exhibitionist streak in her if it wasn’t for him. Her hand’s buried itself in her damp panties. She doesn’t recall consciously moving it, but that doesn’t matter. What matters is how easily her fingers can slip between the folds of her sex. Her clit is exposed, already throbbing for attention. But she won’t touch it, not yet. She wants to enjoy this a little while longer. Her scent is getting all over his sheets. She can’t smell it, but Peter can. And he will as soon as he walks in. The thought makes her inner muscles twitch and squeeze together. She can almost picture it, the sound of his steel-toed boots walking in, him stopping and breathing deeply. Catching her scent. Turning his head to find the source, and maybe grinning at her in that way that makes her pussy fucking quiver.

“ Oh God…” That’s where her fingers go next. Just two to play with. They aren’t big enough to imitate Peter’s size. His hand or his dick. He doesn’t bother to finger her often—he’d much rather lick her open and make her ‘squeal’ that way—but when he does, he’s no slouch there either. Being fingered by Peter was like being fucked by a lesser man.

Her body’s happy to make due with what it gets though. She’s so keyed up, it all feels good. Her hips are rolling into it, grinding her eager clit against her palm as her fingers move in and out. The other hand rucked her white tank up so she could squeeze her breasts. She won’t be able to leave bruises on herself unfortunately, but it still sends a little charge right through her. Pinching and rolling her nipples between her fingers has her legs falling open wide. Makes her feel wonderfully slutty.

While Peter is pretty damn talented with his hands and his mouth, fucking him was another experience entirely. Arguably the best sex they have is the most violent. Dangerous one might call it from the outside looking in.

_He liked slamming her into things. She didn’t know why. Maybe it was an animal thing. Maybe it was just the implied dominance. Maybe he just liked to sling her around. Maybe he was just a violent motherfucker and she was into that. Either way, he found a surface and slammed her into it, and she loved it. He ripped her shirt over her head. Her bra, he shredded. If he didn’t like her panties, he’d tear those off too. (He’d made it_ _**abundantly** _ _clear how much he disliked her wardrobe, he was destroying her clothes on purpose, the ass.) She liked to be in a position to wrap her legs around him. His waist was great for that. He liked to wrap his hand around her throat. Apparently her neck was great for_ _**that** _ _. Yet another thing she didn’t know she was hot for until he actually did it. If any human tried that, she’d murder them in the middle of the bed. Peter was arguably more dangerous to her neck. There were all sorts of bones and bits he could fuck up in there. He could flex too hard and rip her throat out. The same went for the bite marks he left everywhere with his human teeth. It would be nothing to extend his fangs and do some real damage._

_It never has been something she worried about though. Yeah he could, but he hasn’t. Yeah he might, but he won’t. Considerate wasn’t really a word that one applied to Peter Hale often (if ever) but he was something like that while they were fucking. He’d yet to actually hurt her despite their physical differences and how hard they went at it. He’d probably cite something like his control over himself. And probably berate her over how if he were going to kill her, it’d be on purpose and she_ _**wouldn’t** _ _enjoy it. It wouldn’t happen because got too damn excited and lost control of himself like some hormonal pup. Classic Peter._

_She let him press her into the wall, use the hand on her throat to forcefully turn her head. He didn’t so much kiss her as he did crash their lips together and take whatever he wanted. She didn’t make it easy of course. Hand on her throat or no, she bit, she rocked against him, pushed back into the heat of his body, reached up and behind herself to fist her hand in his ‘perfectly groomed’ hair._

_She felt his snarl more than she heard it. That was about the only warning she got before he threw her on the bed. Something toppled over on his entirely-too-expensive bedside table and hit the floor when she landed. Neither of them stopped to do anything about it. He’d be just as irritated about it later as he would if he stopped to address it now. Shit always fell over, got knocked down, got bumped into, got fucking lost under his clothes, her clothes, the bed, the couch, ended up on the goddamn balcony. Naturally, it was all her fault._

_The bed dipped under his weight, and his hand was curled back around her throat again. Apparently she hadn’t fallen into the position he wanted, and her punishment for it was a hard slap on the ass. It completely caught her off guard, and while the shock it sent through her was rather nice, he was still going to get called an asshole just for doing it. Asshole._

_His other hand gripped her hip none too gently and hauled her back where she was evidently supposed to be. High maintenance, bossy prisswolf motherfuck—she was positive she hadn’t said all that shit out loud, but it’s possible she’d telegraphed it on her face. Which would explain the sudden, and rather brutal thrust she got for her backsass._

_He wasn’t gentle, nor did she want him to be. Tomorrow—hell, later today—she would have his hand-shaped bruises on her neck, on her clavicle and collarbone, on her hips most definitely, her back, her ass. Her favorite place was her thighs. She quite liked a visual reminder of just where he’d been and what he’d done to her. When he wanted her, he **wanted**  her and he wasn’t subtle about it. The closest he came to losing control. Once was rarely enough; and sometimes he didn’t even slow down in what would be his resting period._

_She left her own marks on him as well—his just went away a lot faster. It didn’t stop her from scoring his back and shoulders with her nails, pulling on his hair, biting at his shoulders, lips, ears, chest, whatever she could reach. Hugging his body with the strength that would have human men crying out in surrender. She didn’t bother to restrain herself because he could take it. Because she **wanted**  him too._

_And so they had each other. In more than one position most certainly. Sometimes she could push Peter over, sometimes she could get enough leverage to flip them. Sometimes he was lazy and she got her way without much of a fuss. Sometimes he just manhandled her however he damn well pleased. It wasn’t often they ended up in a position that kept his hand from her throat or his teeth away from the back of her neck though. If he felt her building up to another orgasm and he wanted to be an asshole, Peter might decide that exact moment was the right time to change positions. Once, he did it four times in a row. She couldn’t even get mad at him because it’s fucking Peter and he does that. The fifth time he pulled out and put them into yet another position, she called him a fucking prick and they both started laughing. Then he started moving and she started moaning and the sixth time turned out to be the charm._

_For all the noise she made (and she did make_ _**a lot** _ _of noise)_ _,_ _Peter_ _wasn’t very loud_ _._ _Intense, focused, driven—oh God, so driven—yet not very noisy. After the many times she’d ended up in his bed, she’d learned a few t_ _hings_ _. Learned to read his body_ _. She knew when he was close—he clamped down_ _**hard** _ _, she wasn’t going_ _**anywhere** _ _he didn’t want her to go, then he would truly fuck her_ _and fuck her and_ _**fuck** _ _her_ _until it hit him._ _Or her. Or both of them, one after the other—_ _Oh God…_

“ Ahhh  **fuck**!” Her own climax snuck up on her. One minute it’s building, heating, twisting, coiling in her abdomen, her fingers are busy rubbing over her wet and tingling clit, her throbbing and wanton pussy. The next minute, her orgasm gets forced right out of her like a bullet leaving the barrel. Her back leaves the bed, and her hips desperately raise up towards her hand; seeking every bit of pleasure she could possibly give herself before exhaustion sets in. “ Goddamn, goddamn… ”

Once the waves stop crashing over her, the ocean begins to recede, her hand slows down. Still rubbing, still enjoying, her whole damn pussy is still flexing and buzzing. But it’s a lazy kind of pleasure. The kind that leaves her purring. Stroking herself at leisure until everything becomes too sensitive.

Her hair has to be a mess, all over the place from her thrashing around. The sheets are more than damp under her; she has a tendency to get quite wet all on her own. She doesn’t have werewolf senses, but she’s positive Peter’s apartment positively reeks of sex and sleepy human. So sleepy she won’t bother putting on anymore clothes before rolling over to the wolf’s side of the bed. Not that she had any sense of modesty, but getting out of bed to dress herself is more work than she was willing to do. Nobody but Peter is going to see her anyway. Besides that, she very much wants him to see, smell, damn near  _taste_  what an eventful day she’s had all by herself. 


End file.
